PMS
by rainwater tears
Summary: Circa Prisoner of Azkaban. Hermione has PMS and Hagrid makes her tea.


**Disclaimer**: Not Mine.  
**Author's Note**: I haven't written Harry Potter fic since 2001, and _that_ fic should be erased from the universe and forgotten. Hopefully I did alright. 

* * *

He hasn't got any clue what he's supposed to do in a situation like this.

The last time a girl had cried in front of him, he was twelve years old. She had been a first year, an unusually small, knock-kneed girl, who had followed him about like a shadow for most of his second year. When he'd finally had enough, pulled himself up to his full height and raised his voice to tell her that under _no_ circumstances did a twelve-year-old boy want to spend all his time with some pathetic, weak little girl, she had burst into silent sobs (her tears, if possible, were even bigger than her eyes) and he'd had to deal with that guilt ever since.

But now Hermione's standing before him, barely through the door, and her shoulders are shaking and her fingers are trembling (she's already dropped the load of books she was carrying, the bang as they'd hit the floor echoing and reverberating around the room and setting Fang off) and she sounds like she might be choking on her own tongue.

"S'okay, Hermione," he says, shuffling backward and pulling out a chair at his oversized table. "Why don' you sit down, then."

He turns his back and busies himself at the small counter. "Some tea'll make it better," he says and he hopes it's the truth. It's what she's always done for him when he's needed comforting. He sneaks a glance her way to see if anything's changed.

Things have gotten worse.

Her face is glistening from the tears she's already shed and there are still more clinging to the corners of her eyes and her lashes. Untamed curls are plastered to her cheeks and when she takes a shuddering breath she inhales a few stray strands and begins to cough. He recognizes the sensation and scratches idly at his beard as he spoons a bit of honey into her tea.

"It'll be alrigh'," he says, gathering the mug up in his enormous hand. "You'll be fine."

He's not completely sure what's going on, though he has his suspicions. It's no secret Hermione's taken on more work than any other student in her year (in any year, most likely) and beyond that he can't remember the last time he saw her with Harry or Ron.

If this was serious (Sirius Black or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or Murder and Death and Disaster, for example) he's sure he'd have been notified already. All the same, though, he joins her at the table and gives her a weak smile. "What's the matter?" he asks, gently as he knows how.

She sniffles into her teacup and he's happy to see that she seems to be calming down. "They just don't understand!" she finally says, her voice fading in and out through a new, quieter batch of tears. "I was only doing what I thought was right, I don't want Harry getting hurt!" She's starting to cough again, and her tears are coming faster and thicker.

He doesn't ask any more questions, just sits as she cries and rants and pauses, on occasion, to lift her teacup and take a deep sip.

"And Ron! Ron is _insufferable_. He acts like there's no danger, like there isn't an evil wizard out to get Harry. It's ridiculous! He's so _blind_. The entire school's trying to protect Harry and Ron's just…it's as if he _tries_ to put Harry in danger."

She swipes the sleeve of her cloak across her eyes and he hands her a rag from the side of the stove. She buries her face in it, wiping away tears and blowing her nose.

"They act like I don't understand just because I don't like flying, but I do understand! It's a _Firebolt_! Ron sent me four owls this summer just to tell me how wonderful it is. But that doesn't mean it's not dangerous. What if Harry gets thrown off when he's fifty feet in the air? Professor Dumbledore won't always be there to make sure he lands safely. And there's only so many times that can happen before it has disastrous consequences.

"And then there's Crookshanks! He's a cat; of _course_ he wants to eat Scabbers. That's just his _nature_! But Ron acts like it's a personal affront, like I _want_ Crookshanks to kill his rat. I don't! I have nothing against Scabbers!

"And it's not like Ron's ever even _noticed_ Scabbers until Crookshanks came along. He always called him a 'stupid rat,' like he didn't care."

Her face is red with anger and shiny from her tears. Her lower lip is trembling and her hands rest atop the table in tight fists. She takes a deep breath (he hears it scrape against her teeth and her tonsils before it slowly inflates her lungs). "He's just so…_infuriating_!"

He nods. " 'Ave you tried ter talk to either of them 'bout any o' this?" he asks slowly, even though he already knows the answer.

She shakes her head. "No," she whispers. "They don't care. Ron thinks _Quidditch_ is the most important thing in the world. Nevermind about safety and other people's feelings. And Harry just goes along with it." She wipes at her eyes again and fights to pull up a smile. "I'm sorry, Hagrid. I didn't mean to cry all over you. It seems like that's all I can do anymore is cry."

"S'alrigh', Hermione," he says with a shake of his head. "Merlin knows I've done th'same to you three more'n once."

She nods and chokes out something between a laugh and a sob. "I brought you some books on Class XXX Magizoology. I thought maybe we could work on Buckbeak's trial."

"Alrigh'."

She stands up to gather the books she'd dropped by the door. "I think we've got quite a bit to work with," she says as she pulls an enormous tome from beneath a sleeping Fang. "This isn't the first Hippogriff case, and it's certainly not hopeless." She manages a small smile. "We're going to work all this out."

He nods. "Yer right, Hermione. It's all goin' to be fine."

They sit back down at the table, each taking a stack of books. As he opens an old copy of Coping with Incompetence: Classification XXX Beasts Through the Ages he hears her let out a final sniffle.

"It's not even Ron's Firebolt, anyways."


End file.
